2019, Portobello, Edinburgh
Janet followed Katherine to a table at the back of the cafe. It was early evening, and most of the other customers were older couples, leaning into each other with earnest expressions, cutting their pitta breads into neat strips, ordering tea in pots, not mugs. Janet wasn’t hungry. Couldn’t imagine ever eating again. The menu shook between her fingers. The small black letters hopped and skipped before her eyes. The prices melded into thousands. Millions. She put the menu down on the table, held it flat with one hand, and traced each line of the options with a finger.
‘What are you having, Janet?’ Katherine’s voice was kind, matter of fact. No indication of a crisis. Of wrong-doing. ‘I’m going for the soup. And a cheese toastie.’ She smiled. ‘You should probably have something to keep you going.’ Janet stared down at the menu. Stabbed a finger at a random line.
‘I’ll have that,’ she said. Katherine took the menu from her. ‘Greek salad. Good choice. I’ll go and order then.’ Janet rested her chin on her balled fists. Closed her eyes. How could she have let them in? Trusted them. What had happened to her? When had she become a foolish old woman? Letting vanity get in the way of good sense? All these years of being so careful. Being private, self-sufficient. The daily anxiety of wondering whether someone somewhere would turn up and put a hand on her shoulder. We know what you did, Janet. Lead her away and lock her up.
It had taken its toll. Such loneliness. So many secrets. Secrets such dangerous things. Turning fact into fiction. Turning fiction into fact. Everything misted up. Twisted into wrong shapes and muted colours. Like getting posted someone else’s holiday snaps. You’re several photos in before you realise it’s the wrong people. You don’t know these people, or that place, at all. It was almost you. But not quite. Maybe she was wasn’t there? Didn’t actually see it. A whole life based on something misremembered. A tragedy. Not a murder. And now she’d been weak. Let her guard down. Put herself at risk. And Cyril. Cyril was gone, maybe even dead. His vapor dissipated into the milky haze of the city. She heaved back a sob.
‘Penny for them,’ Katherine said, as she sat back down at the table. She leant over and took Janet’s hand. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘You need to tell me what happened. Every detail. And we’ll take it from there.’ Between sobs, and a gap for the waiter to set down their cutlery, and then for their food, Janet explained what had happened. How she’d met Amy in the fishmongers. How she’d gone along to the pub to meet the group. How they’d turned up and tricked her. How bereft she was. How frightened. Katherine sat silently, listening, until Janet had finished. ‘Have you phoned the police yet?’ she asked.
‘No, we can’t. I’m not going to the police.’ Her voice was too loud. Too strident. The couple at the next table turned to stare at them. Janet scraped her chair on the floor, pushing the couple out of view.
‘Why not,’ Katherine asked.
‘We can’t waste their time. Not with something like this. They wouldn’t understand. Please.’
‘Well, it’s up to you,’ Katherine replied. She picked up her phone. Interrogated Janet. For descriptions. Names. Phone numbers. Typed everything into her phone. Scrolled and swiped and scrolled again.
‘OK,’ Katherine said. ‘I need to eat before it gets cold. But we’ve got enough to go on.’ She took a mouthful of soup. ‘Seems like they’re well known in the animal rights world.’ She took enough spoonful, then a bite of the toastie. ‘They’ve got form. They’re clever, duplicitous. They’ve tricked their way into corporations. Factory farms. That sort of thing.’ Janet picked an olive out of her salad and chewed at it for longer than necessary.
‘Are they dangerous?’ she asked.
‘Not sure,’ Katherine replied. ‘There’s no reports of violence. But they’ve never been charged with anything. Seems they’ve been too clever for the police.’ Janet interrupted her.
‘So we’ve got no chance then.’ The olive stone fell out of her mouth into the salad bowl. She put a hand to her face, wiped her lips. Hoped Katherine hadn’t seen.
‘If we’re going to get him back,’ Katherine said, ‘we’re going to need a bigger boat.’
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 